


To Settle A Wolf

by NannyOgg



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Bottom Derek, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, M/M, Power Dynamics, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 04:13:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3105227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NannyOgg/pseuds/NannyOgg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek thinks once, in the humid darkness of his bed with the taste of Gerard sour in his mouth, what it would be like to let go.  To feel right.  And solid.  He thinks of settling into himself, of melting into his skin, of being perfect and whole the way Scott so obviously is.  Something noxious claws its way up from his stomach at the thought and squats in his esophagus.  His breath comes narrow and close and he has to trap his hands under the pillow, refuses to feel the fine tremors running the length of his fingers.  Because this, this is his, part of him, deep in his bones and the soft hollows of his ankles, and the too-bright pulse of the veins at his elbows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Settle A Wolf

**Author's Note:**

> I have marked this as dub-con because explicit verbal consent is never given, one party is almost entirely in control, and although both parties do express some form of consent and desire, one of them also feels doubt, anxiety, and some fear/discomfort with the proceedings. See end notes for further discussion of dubious consent tag.

            Derek has been … itchy. Frustrated. Straining for something. Slightly too big in his own skin. For … years. Years and years of this unsettlement, deep in his bones and the soft hollows of his ankles and the prominent veins at his elbows. He doesn't really remember what it's like to feel grounded, settled, exactly _right_. There are memories, swimming in his brain, of when he was two and five and six, when the wolfskin and the humanskin were one and his heart beat happily, just big and just loud and just quick enough. But those memories have been warped, the synaptic paths he takes to reach them have shifted, colored by later moments and later feelings. He feels the happiness, still, when he sinks into one of those memories, or the petty jealousy or the horrible boredom, but he feels them as he would feel them now, his heart sometimes a little slow, sometimes a little loud, and the feel of his blood always just a little too much.

            This isn't the fault of the fire. He knows that much, can admit that much to himself. This comes from before, from when his ears were still too big for his face and his voice was cracking and the world seemed like it was out to trip him up, knock him down, and mock him at every turn. He's … well, he's used to it now.

            He taught himself, in the years he and Laura spent in their creaky, freezing New York apartment, to control his body. He taught himself to work through the discomfort, the aching feeling of _oddness_ , the way there were divots in his body, soft points that never felt whole unless he pressed a thumb into them: behind his ears, between his collarbones, over the stark veins at his wrist. The body, this body, _his_ body, whatever else it is, obeys him. Utterly.

            He thinks once, in the humid darkness of his bed with the taste of Gerard sour in his mouth, what it would be like to lose it. To feel right. And, and solid. He thinks of settling into himself, of melting into his skin, of being perfect and whole the way Scott so obviously is. Something noxious claws its way up from his stomach at the thought and squats in his esophagus. His breath comes narrow and close and he has to trap his hands under the pillow, refuses to feel the fine tremors running the length of his fingers. Because this, this is _his_ , part of him, deep in his bones and the soft hollows of his ankles, and the too-bright pulse of the veins at his elbows.

***

          There are bedbugs. In his loft.

          In his bed, and all his sheets, and the nice, fluffy set of blue towels he bought from Target and only used once.

            There are bedbugs in his loft, so Derek is sitting in the laundromat at 11:30 at night, listening to his sheets thunk their way around the washing machine for the third time (hot water, extra detergent).

            The yellow light of the fluorescents glares off the banks of chrome machines and the horrible teal tiles. There's something unidentifiable and pink splattered over the floor two inches to the left of Derek's foot, and a dark smear that might be blood half-hidden under his machine. There are a handful of coins – at least one quarter, probably a handful of pennies – in the pocket of the bathrobe four dryers down. The owner of the bathrobe is snoring rhythmically in a chair, the remnants of three lemon candies gommed to her dentures. Derek could list all the ingredients, down to the artificial preservatives, if someone asked.

            Instead he breathes shallow and careful, tracks the tile pattern down the floor, gnaws at the skin of his lip. The lights are too bright and too yellow and too distant and they hum and buzz at the corner of his hearing. There's something cold and awful about the laundromat at 11:30 at night. Derek counts his quarters and breathes and every now and then he prods, with a mental tongue, at the space between where he ends and his skin begins – worries at it, like a loose tooth.

            "Heyyyyyo … Derek."

            Stiles opens the door like a hurricane, but when Derek glances up he's just standing there, twitching a little, like he always seems to be. Derek thinks he raises an eyebrow.

            Stiles hoists the bag in his hands. "Dryer broke, you know how it is."

            He shuffles up the aisle, crabwalks around the old lady, and plops down next to Derek. "So. Hopping place on a Wednesday night, huh? Real lively crowd. Everyone a'rockin' and a'shakin and – yeah, no, I got nothin', man. So. What're you doing here at such a late hour?"

            Derek jerks his head at his tumbling sheets. "Bedbugs."

            Stiles flares his nose and pulls his mouth in tight. "Sucks, dude." He gives Derek a sideways glance. "You're not, like, contagious, are you? 'Cause you might think living with bedbugs is, like, the epitome of noble self-flagellation, but no need to share with the class, dude. I have delicate skin."

            Derek jerks his head too sharply – he can hear it crack. "I'm not contagious, idiot."

            "Okay, but if I take bedbugs home my Dad is gonna be out for blood, and I'm gonna make sure it's all yours."

            Stiles upends his bag over the next machine and Derek catches glimpses of white socks among jeans and plaid shirts. Derek watches him dump in what must be half a cup of detergent. He reaches for his pocket, yanks a little too hard, and sends quarters spinning across the linoleum. Derek reaches down for the one right beneath his chair, only Stiles does too and Derek watches as Stiles' thumb swipes across the soft place at his wrist and he can't help, can't help but shudder, quick and fragile.

            Stiles straightens up with the quarter. "You okay, dude?"

            Derek turns in his chair, stares resolutely at his sheets. "I'm fine." It comes out harsh, a little jagged around the edges.

            "Huh." The weight of Stiles' gaze burns on the side of his face, before traveling down. It lingers on his foot, which he realizes is jigging up and down. He stops it, and clenches his fingers in the faded cotton of his jeans. Waits.

            Stiles doesn't say another word, just scrabbles around for the rest of the quarters.

            He sits back down next to Derek and they watch Derek's sheets together. When they're done, Stiles helps him pull the tangled mass out and heave it into a dryer. When Stiles leaves, Derek sits hyper-aware and perfectly still, listening to the pulse of his blood.  

***

            "Where are you going? Derek! _Derek!_ "

            Scott spins him around roughly, panting and flushed and dripping blood and righteousness. "We need your car, man – someone's gotta take Erica to Deaton's."

            There's a hole clean through her arm. Derek knows; he got an up close look at Kali putting it there. Stiles is patting at it ineffectually now, while Erica watches in horrified fascination. Derek can feel the leftover adrenalin screaming through his system, veins now too large, now too small.

            "I can't."

            "What do you mean you _can't_?! God, Derek, this is the least you could do. What the hell is _wrong_ with you?"

            Derek tries not to look Scott in his bright, certain eyes. "I mean I can't, Scott."

            Stiles and Erica are standing now, watching them, but Scott's eyes are the heaviest. "Do you not even care? You _turned_ her, Derek, you don't get to turn back on that. You’re her _alpha_ – isn't that supposed to mean something? Isn't that something _important_ to wolves? Pack before anything else?" Scott's eyes are wounded, now, and so righteous – so right – that Derek feels bile rise in his throat. "You know what, I don't know anything about wolves. I wasn't born one, I still don't have full control of the shift, but even I can tell that you should _never_ have been an alpha."

            Derek can feel that deep itch blooming, pouring out beneath his skin. He digs the tips of his nails into his palms, glares at the forest floor, and, "I know, _fuck_ , don't you think I know that?"

            "Well then _act_ like it, Derek! Be better! Convince me that you're actually trying!" Earnest. Scott is earnest. His eyes are wide and his jaw is set and Derek – Derek can't. He needs out. To go. Now.

            Erica is shifting uncomfortably as the hole in her arm starts to close, but Stiles is staring at him, gone perfectly still. Scott is still panting and Derek is … tired. So tired, and _still_ about to burst. And Scott is staring at him, looking for something more.

            "I didn't take my car."

            "What?"

            "That's why I can't. I didn't drive here. But I can – I can carry her."

            Derek can see Scott deflate. He opens his mouth – an apology, an expression of awkward guilt that Derek does not want – but Stiles claps him on the shoulder. "Nah man, we got this," he says, staring at Derek. "You coming, Catwoman?" Between the two of them, Stiles and Erica nudge Scott into the Jeep. Derek watches until the engine revs, and then he drops to all fours and turns to the forest.

***

            The bathroom tiles in the loft are cold under Derek, piercing up through the tears in his jeans. There's warmth at his back, though, and words that, if not soft in delivery, hover around him like a muffling curtain.

            "Jesus Christ, we could probably use you as live target practice, for _Allison_ , and do less damage. Lift your shoulder, will you? There we go. Human Pincushion, that's what we could call you – or Wolf Pincushion, I guess. Whipping Boy? Noble Martyr with the Self-Preservation Instincts of a Lemming?"

            There are arms wrapped around his shoulders now, agile hands prying free the last shards of metal from his stomach. "Absolute Epitome of Idiocy?"

            There's a clang as the shards hit the bottom of the trash bin, and then the hands are back, prodding at the ragged skin, still bleeding sluggishly. They still when they find nothing else, and then Stiles huffs out a laugh against Derek's neck. "God, you are just, like, physically incapable of giving up, aren't you?"

            The hands return with a washcloth, also cold, and then Derek's fluffy blue towel, and then they help him to his feet. The hardwood in the main room isn't any warmer than the tiles under his bare feet, but Stiles folds himself down on the couch and tugs Derek down with him.

            Stiles settles Derek between his legs, back-chest and thigh-to-thigh. The buzz under Derek's skin is rising through the silence, setting everything on edge, but of course Stiles doesn't notice.

            "You weren't supposed to be an alpha, were you?" Stiles isn't touching him, not with his hands, but the warmth of his body is seeping into Derek's bones and his body feels slow.

            "No, you weren't," Stiles says consideringly. "Were you the baby? The perfect little boy?"

            Derek jerks his head, almost helpless, and Stiles rests a comforting hand on his thigh. "No, no, I believe you. But all this wasn't meant for you, was it? You were never supposed to be in charge."

            The room goes silent again. Stiles doesn't shift his hand, high on Derek's thigh, cupping him. Derek holds himself for long moments, suppressing the urge to shift, to move, to _run_ , before Stiles lets out a sigh – a long ohhhh of a sound – and finally moves.

            Derek hasn't bought a TV so they're both staring at the black wall, brick turning to white sheetrock, and through the exhaustion fog and the ragged ends of the adrenaline rush Derek can feel Stiles' fingers trailing slowly over his cock, nails catching in the denim. The loft is silent, and dim, and utterly filled with the warmth-smell-feel of Stiles behind and around him. Derek is caught and held between the gentle breaths over his back and the electric pressure at his crotch.

            He hovers there, horribly aware and perfectly still, for long long moments, minutes, _hours_ , listening to the pulse of blood in his, in their veins.

            Stiles unzips him then, gentle and gently amused, and runs a knuckle up the length of his cock. They breathe there together for a moment, the bone of Stiles' ring-finger just barely touching the frenulum, and then Stiles closes a sure fist around Derek, hooks his chin over his shoulder, and watches himself jerk Derek off.

            Derek – Derek thinks he might be twitching; light tremors in his back, his forearms, the insides of his thighs. Stiles makes inquisitive noises now and then, when he feels one, and changes his grip or his speed. He sneaks his other arm under Derek's and splays his hand over his stomach, holds him there.

            He pauses now and then, takes his hand off to trail just a single finger up and down or to pet reassuringly at the inside of his thigh. And then he just, makes a humming noise, and removes his hand entirely. Just – stops. Derek goes tense as stone at that – fragile as glass, and he can feel a desperate plea building at the base of his throat as the moment lengthens. Stiles hums again, knowingly, and sets a single deliberate fingernail into Derek's slit.

            Derek comes.

            But there's something … incomplete. Something burning, twisting just beneath the skin and Derek can't help but to squirm just a little. He presses himself back into the terrible warmth, uncertain. He can feel Stiles' confusion, can feel him pull back a hair's breadth and that – no. _No_. But then –

"Oh Derek. _Derek_." Stiles presses a gentle smile his shoulder. "Here?"

            He shifts slightly, widening his legs, and then slides his hand between Derek's jeans and his skin and pets a single finger over Derek's hole.

            The world pauses.

            Stiles presses languid kisses into his deltoid, the ridge of his shoulder blade, the soft hairs at the nape of his neck, and does it again.

            There's something clawing in Derek's throat, something demanding, railing, pleading, and there's something sinking in his stomach – settling, expanding, warming. Stiles holds his finger there, there where Derek so badly wants to go soft and welcoming. Just a tease, just a question. "Here, Derek? Here?"

            The hairs on his neck tremble with Stiles' breath, and a fine tremor has settled into the muscles there. "You have to tell me, Derek. Here?"

            Derek's lips are sealed and his tongue his tied and that something in his chest is _screaming_ , but he – his body, his skin – nods. Just a fraction of an inch, just a tiny, awkward jerk, and yet somehow Stiles seems to grow even warmer behind him and horribly, exquisitely, magically, the finger presses in.

***

            Derek wakes to the sun and a rumpled warmth that doesn't want to let him go. His legs are heavy and slow and his arms seem to be made of golden treacle. He shifts slowly, languid and strange, and reaches for the coolness of the sheets beside him.

            As his consciousness rises he realizes the air is still beside him. He listens, still deep in lethargy, but hears only his own breath, the rough pace of his own heart. When he forces his eyes open he sees only his own arms, dark against the sheets, morning sun catching on the hairs.

            He's clutching his French press in two reluctantly-functional hands when the door bangs open. He turns to see Stiles, holding a paper bag spotted with grease, and something gnarled blossoms and twists in his chest.

            Stiles takes one look at him and says, "No."

            He shuts the door behind him, drops the bag on the counter, and advances on Derek. "Nope, no, nuh-uh."

            Derek watches in slow confusion as Stiles grabs his shoulders, still bare and sleep-warm, and chivvies him back to the bed. The anger doesn't have time to form before he's tipped backward onto the sheets and Stiles is kneeling over him.

            Stiles is giving him a peculiar look, focused and oddly still, and he says, almost conversational, "You were supposed to stay here until I got back, all warm and sleepy."

            Something ugly slithers across Derek's face and Stiles looks a little distant, a little taken-aback, before he smiles and says, "Oh, Derek. You didn't think I'd leave you, did you?"

            Then he's reaching for Derek's sweatpants and sliding them down and off and with no hesitation, no pause, his hand falls on Derek's cock. He works it firmly, gaze unmoving on Derek's face, and Derek has to close his eyes to keep hold of himself. As soon as he does Stiles stops. The air is still for a moment, and then he sighs lightly and drops, draping himself over Derek's body. He buries his face in Derek's neck and breathes deeply, slow against Derek's own frantic breaths.

            Then, then his hands find Derek's wrists. He wraps long fingers around them, rotating them slightly, and settles his thumbs at the pulse points and presses _in_.

            Derek goes slow and molten and he sinks, deeply.

            When he opens his eyes, Stiles' bright ones are only a few inches away. They pin him, body and core, and Derek knows that he is is locked and shackled, bought and sold. Then Stiles smiles, a slow, spreading thing. "Hi," he says.

            He closes his teeth first over the lobe of Derek's ear, and then the tender skin of his throat. He licks across his collar bones and bites, gentle and firm, into the meat of Derek's shoulder. All the while he keeps his hands at Derek's wrists, his thighs across Derek's, his smaller frame pinning Derek's larger one.

            He nuzzles at a nipple and breathes across the planes of Derek's chest, and then he raises himself back up. "There. You'll be good for me now, won't you?"

            He must see an answer in Derek's face, because he releases one wrist, which remains pinned to the bed, heavy as lead, and brings the other to his face. His kisses the palm softly and strokes each finger from base to tip before circling round the thumb. Then, eyes mischievous, he lays a sucking kiss across the veins. Derek's stomach melts and spreads throughout his body, molten and gold.

            Stiles pets at him as he would a dog: behind the ears, under his chin, across the twitching muscles of his stomach. Every touch is … sure. Affectionate. Patronizing and shameful. And damning in the way Derek reaches for every stroke, every press.

            Stiles coaxes his legs apart and raises them up, props him wide open to the room and Stiles' own relentless, hungry gaze. He runs his fingers up the backs of his calves, pauses to idly brush at the soft fold at the back of his knees, and strokes up and down the crease of his thigh. Derek has gone loose and heavy and electric for every touch. Stiles smiles up from between his knees, and leans forward to suckle gently on the head of his cock.

            Derek wishes for nothing more to reach for him when he pulls away, but his arms are once again golden treacle. Stiles pats his dick approvingly and presses a fleeting kiss to the base when he does not move. "Good boy," he murmurs, indistinct and half-aware.

            Stiles' eyes are a brand, unrelenting and hot on Derek's cock, his balls, and then, as Stiles shifts him with confident hands, the softest place of all. Stiles sits back on his heels and _watches_ for long minutes and it strokes something deep within Derek, warm and wrong as a hand on his belly or teeth at his neck.

            Stiles meets his eyes again. "No, you weren't the baby, but you were meant for comfort, weren't you, Derek? For compliments and assurances. For pleasure. For _this_." And Stiles lays a filthy wet kiss on his hole – kisses it as though it were his mouth, as though it were the answer to all his dreams, drawing the flesh inside and laving it with his tongue and suckling, deep and hungry.

            Stiles pulls back to stare, to watch as Derek goes pliant and open. The cool air on the wet flesh is electric and awful and Derek can feel a tremor – there, deep, _within_.

            "But you need to be anchored, don't you?" Stiles asks, and with no preamble sinks a thumb into this softest of spots, and he watches, drinking in every detail, as Derek jolts and shivers and comes, splashing his own chin with the force of it.

            When the shockwaves have subsided and the after-tremors are fading, Stiles leans over him. He catches his eyes, and he deliberately places one hand across Derek's shivering belly and curls the other around the back of Derek's neck and he says, clear and slow, " _Good_ boy." And the little gnarled hurt under Derek's skin thaws and runs.

            Stiles holds him there, breathes with him, their eyes locked and Derek is _bare_. Bare and naked and soft before him, opened and known.

            Finally Stiles smiles at him softly and says, "Do you want more?"

            Derek can't move, not even to answer that, but he has been opened now and Stiles can read the answer in his skin and his sweat and the twitching of his fat cock.

            Stiles squeezes his neck before pulling back. He rolls Derek over with kind hands – pulls him up onto his knees, and settles his neck so there's no strain. He brushes a hand down Derek's back, bites tenderly at the prominent vertebra in his neck, and then he pets proprietarily over his hole. Derek realizes, as he lays there – open and wanton and _wanted_ – that Stiles is still fully clothed and he goes even softer inside.

            Stiles works the lube charitably between his hands before sinking in, so his fingers are just one long, warm continuation of the golden glow. And then – Derek was wrong, his hole is not his core, it is this place, this –. Stiles works him with restless fingers, petting over and over this swollen place. "Yes, here," he says. "So plump. So _needy_ , Derek." Stiles pets it and gentles it along, not enough and yet far too much, digs a fingertip in now and then.

            Derek knows he is watching his own fingers, watching where they pierce him where he is soft, watching as Derek shivers beneath him. "Yes," and "there," and "that's it," he croons. And he cups the back of Derek's neck and murmurs "What a good boy," and finally, reverently, as he strokes a fingernail across Derek's plump, swollen prostate, " _Beautiful_."

            Stiles feeds him there, after, propped against his chest in the tangled sheets: sections of quiche and grapes from his fingers, sips of water from the bottle, a piece of greasy bacon he already ate half of. Derek's chest is covered in his come, and Stiles is still fully-clothed, and Derek is all soft, all languid, all – "Fucked out," Stiles whispers into his ear, and then kisses it.

            He reaches down to stroke across Derek's hole – "Your cunt, Der-bear, your cunt" – every now and then, fascinated. When the bag is empty he throws it to the side and rolls them down onto the bed. They fall asleep there, sun streaming through the windows, and Stiles' thumb pressing into the thin skin behind Derek's ear.

***

            Derek wakes up the next morning to more sun and tangled sheets. He fumbles at his phone and – of course, of fucking _course_ , Stiles turned off his alarm. Something vicious and hurt rises in his chest and he re-sets the alarm for a whole hour earlier, before slamming the phone closed.

            He doubles his run that morning, out until the heat is unbearable, and he's just turning back onto his street, lungs on fire, when he realizes that Stiles could have come back. Like yesterday. He stops so suddenly he nearly trips, and ducks back around the corner.

            After an internal debate he ends up dodging into the neighboring apartment building, climbing the rusted metal stairs, and skulking around on the roof until he can be sure Stiles isn't in his building. The leap he takes onto his balcony is perfect and deliberate even as he shifts, a little apart from his skin, and he thinks _yes_. _Yes_ , because this is his.

            The loft doesn't feel right, though, when he steps in. The sheets are tangled and the floor is glinting redgold in the light and everything is warm with the thick scent of them. Derek watches for a long moment as the dust motes dance in the light, both aching and angry, before collecting a few things and fleeing.

            He spends the next few nights in the Preserve, until it rains for two whole days and he huddles up in the husk of the Hale House, skin tight and lungs a little big. But Peter might find him there, and if there's person he wants to see less than Stiles, it's Peter.

            The next afternoon, sun fighting through the clouds, Erica opens her door to find Derek glowering sheepishly at her. Her smile is tentative at first, until she notices the pack on his back. She takes a good long look at his face, and she must see something there she likes, because her smile stretches to the edges of her cheeks. "Need a place to stay, oh Alpha my Alpha?"

            Derek shrugs. Stares at her bare feet. "Yeah. Just for a couple days."

            "Cool. Come on in." She turns into the cool dark of the house, beckoning behind her. "Isaac is here too. I'm teaching him to kick Assassin Creed's ass."

            Derek pauses on the threshold. "Your parents won't … mind?"

            She turns and flashes him a grin. "I wasn't planning on telling them. You're the master of creeping around, aren't you?"

            "Yes, yes he is," Isaac says from the doorway. "Now can you finally start showing me those tricks you promised? I want to finish this stupid side-mission so I can watch you teaching Derek to play."

            "What? Why am I teaching Derek to play? I thought today was supposed to be a pamper-Isaac day."

            "Oh it is. I just want to see Derek be awful at something for once." Isaac saunters off into the living room. Erica rolls her eyes at his back before grabbing Derek by the pack strap and towing him after her. Deep in his stomach, something settles and spreads.

***

            Stiles ducks a sharp blow, pops back up and says, conversationally, "I hear you spent some time at Erica's place."

            Somewhere to their left, something makes a horrible bubbling sound. Derek stares at Stiles for a moment, gobsmacked, and nearly loses a hand as a result. He twists away, manages to kick the golem in one crooked knee, and then it's just a matter of severing the head.

            When he levers himself back up, clay thick under his claws, Stiles is still standing exactly where he was, staring at him. "And Boyd's too, I heard."

            Derek swears and stabs a clawed hand forward, under Stiles' arm, to sever the reaching hand of a half-mutilated golem. "What the hell is _wrong_ with you?" he growls.

            Stiles smiles, then, and pivots neatly on his left heel to smash in the face of the next golem. He hoists the bat on his shoulder and turns back. "And Mrs. Wilkerson said you carried her groceries for her last week. She was so shocked she said her heart problems came back."

            Lifting the two crippled golems by their shoulders and smashing their heads together, Derek growls, "Shut _up_. Do you _want_ to die?"

            After the crash of breaking pottery fades the forest around them goes still for a moment, before someone yells to their right.

            "I suppose we'd better go help," Stiles says, but he grabs a handful of Derek's shirt and yanks him close. "But first, know that I'm going to take you home tonight and clean you up and finger you until you break and then," he leans in and breathes in Derek's ear, "I'm going to milk your prostate with my cock. And you'll be good for me. Alpha."

            Derek stares at him, warm and startled and a little eager, when he pulls back, and Stiles lifts one side of his lips in a smile before clapping him on the shoulder. "Come on, now. I hear there are monsters to be slain and betas to be saved." And he sets off, bat on his shoulder and Derek following close behind.

**Author's Note:**

> I've written this as an expansion upon Derek's penchant for self-flagellation and my supposition that he would work to cultivate and maintain any kind of internal hurt, even if he didn't view it as some kind of justified punishment, because he would view it as an intrinsic and defining part of himself, much in the way some people with depression do. Anything that mitigated that hurt (in this case sex) he would reject and resist as best he could. With respect to this fic, he hates the fact that he enjoys his sexual encounters with Stiles, and he views them as taking something away from him.
> 
> TL;DR  
> Derek can't let himself feel good. He just can't, okay?
> 
> ALSO - feel free to visit me on [Tumblr](http://ahedgehogcannever.tumblr.com/), if you feel so inclined. I've never done it before, so I make no promises, but I might be open to taking prompts. Or just word-building ridiculous AUs, because apparently that's how I get my jollies now.


End file.
